Snow On The Sahara
by DragonChild85
Summary: Dean ponders the difference in him and Sam. A touch of HurtSam, and a smidge bit of fuel abuse. Name from the song of the same title, but not a song-fic. Only spoiler is if you don't know what John tells Dean in "In My Time Of Dying".


*bites her lip* Don't ask where this came from. 3 AM with no caffine and bed still 5 hours off I guess. .

Timeframe: Season 2. Early.

Spoilers: Um...if you haven't seen any of Season 2, then yeah. If you know what John's last words to Dean in "In My Time of Dying" were, then you're good to read this.

Warnings: Potty-mouth Dean. And Sam. Slight squinty mentions of fuel abuse I suppose.

* * *

The air had been humid and sticky in whatever state this ghost had been, July lending the heat well after the sun had hidden for the night. Sam was fully justified in stripping down to just his grey tee-shirt…Dean had as well, much earlier, the sweat from digging up graves leaving it much darker than it had started.

You couldn't convince Dean of that though. Not after he had seen the ghost fling Sam into an overgrown raspberry patch, yards from where they were digging. The matches had dropped from nerveless fingers, and as soon as the massive hulk of a ghost had flamed gone, he was sprinting to the spot where the curses were most impressive. Really, his little brother had the mouth of a sailor when it suited him.

He had chuckled and smirked until he had seen the damage, the full moon lending plenty of light to see the bright crimson blooms on the grey. He could see multiple thorns, but knew, just knew there were plenty more he couldn't see in the lighting. "God Damnit Sam." His hands had gotten frantic, wanting to peel off the shirt but almost afraid of doing more damage, but Sam had just shook his head, casting a tense look over his shoulder.

"Raspberries, remember?" He had twitched a shoulder, wincing as it pulled. "Let's just get this filled in, and get back to the motel."

"Fuck it. Someone else can fill it in. Not like they won't notice anyway." It went against what they had been taught, still respectful of the dead even in their profession, but Sam came first. That was the way the deck was stacked, and they both knew it. Sam shrugged, growled as the mass of thorns burrowed deeper and cut, and shuffled towards the Impala.

* * *

Sam hissed, tensing as Dean pulled another thorn from his back. "Damnit, that hurts!" He shifted uncomfortably on the cool bed, burrowing his face in the pillow to smother back the growls and mutters aimed at his brother.

"If you'd quit fighting and fidgeting, this would go quicker." Dean has to admit, it's hard on both of them; he doesn't relish pulling thorns out of his brother's flesh, and he knows that this pain is a more annoying pain, one that can't easily be pushed to the background and dealt with later. At least with the worst of the 'gore' off, the damage didn't seem that bad. The deepest and worst would get a touch of antibiotic ointment, the rest would be good with a scrubbing of Dial and just taking it easy for a day or two.

He rested his hand on his brother's flank, steadying the flesh as he teased another massive barb out of the pale skin. Sam jerked, groaning quietly as the curved edge caught his skin and tore, rather than slipping out neatly. Dean swiped at it with the gauze that was slowly staining red, and for a moment, the sight made him mentally stumble, tripping over the oddity, feeling vaguely like déjà-vu. More like a piece of puzzle sliding into place underwater.

His skin was golden against the pale expanse of Sam's back, the red of their shared blood caught between the two. He blinked, feeling like a veil of silk and gold had draped across his shoulders, and he swallowed hard as his mind whispered. Or had someone else whispered it, long ago?

Dean is golden, bright sun to illuminate Sam's world.

Sam is the moonlight, the only bright spot left in Dean's galaxy.

The two are almost counterpoints, but yet they blend so well. Neither dominating the other, merely sharing the same world, the views vastly different, and yet, the same. Bound by the same blood, the same legacy, and yet, both knew they were walking different paths, their futures woven of different cloths.

"Dean?" Sam's voice broke the spell, pulling his brother back into the here and the now, and Dean swayed a moment, jarred by the transition. He shook his head.

"Yeah. Just lay still dude. Few more to go." He was a little disconnected still, watching as his body went to autopilot as he pulled the briars from skin, dropping each into the ashtray resting against his knee. Remove. Drop. Swipe. Again.

It made sense, he supposed idly. He knew he gave the carefully cultivated appearance of nonchalance, a quick smirk and bright sunny grin, a bright spot. But get close enough, and just before you got burned, you'd see the writing, the dark spots that twisted and gnarled.

Sammy had been darker, yet still innocent, in a way that had surprised even their dad. Sam hadn't feared the dark, hadn't laid in bed with baited breath. No, that brother had lain with his face tipped towards the window, seeking the bathing silvery light, even if it was hidden. He had his flaws, his tortured moments, but even those were laid out for everyone to see, if you just focused enough. He supposed it made sense.

Or the fumes from the gas had really gotten to his head.

Dean grinned, dropping the last visible thorn into the glass with a soft noise, and rested his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Let me know if I missed any." Sam nodded, and Dean firmly but gently applied pressure, gliding his hand in steady sweeps across the expanse of flesh, watching for any twitch or tensing of muscle. "Good. A few spots need some ointment, and you're good to go. Stay outta the briars next time dude. Seriously."

He washed his hands in the sink, watching in the mirror as Sam eased his arms up under the pillow, sinking and relaxing as he let sleep wash over him. Dean shook his head, pulling the sheet and blanket up to his brother's waist before sliding a hand through the long hair affectionately, smirking as Sam turned his head into the touch, nuzzling the silver rays that rested against his pillow. His own hand was bathed in the light, and his stomach churned, a feeling of déjà vu swelling again under his skin, and he yanked his hand back, stumbling backward to sit on his own bed.

He was Sam's light. No way his little brother would ever walk in darkness, no matter what their dad thought. Never. He pulled the covers up against his jaw, clutching that thought tightly to himself like a teddy bear as he started to drift. He'd always be there to protect him. Always.


End file.
